Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“You grasping little whore,” she spat. “Do you think I don’t know what you are? Do you think I would allow you in my home again?”

Thomas was about to intercede, but then he realized that Grace was handling the situation with far more aplomb than he could ever have managed.

Her face calm and impassive, she said, “I was about to say that I would offer you my assistance for the rest of the journey, since I would never dream of leaving a post without giving proper and courteous notice, but I believe I have reconsidered.” She turned to Amelia.

“May I share your room this evening?”

“Of course,” Amelia replied promptly. She linked her arm through Grace’s. “Let us have some supper.”

It was a magnificent exit, Thomas decided as he followed them, even if he could not see his grandmother’s face. But he could well imagine it, red and sputtering.

A cooler clime would do her good. Truly. He would have to take it up with the new duke.

“That was magnificent!” Amelia gushed, once they’d entered the dining room. “Oh, my goodness, Grace, you must be so thrilled.”

Grace looked dazed. “I hardly know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything,” Thomas told her. “Just enjoy your supper.”

“Oh, I shall.” She turned to Amelia, looking as if she might burst out laughing at any moment. “I suspect this shall be the finest shepherd’s pie I have ever tasted.”

And then she did burst out laughing. They all did.

They had their supper, the three of them, and they laughed and laughed and laughed.

And as Thomas drifted off to sleep that night, his ribs still aching from the laughter, it occurred to him that he could not recall a finer evening.

Amelia had enjoyed herself at supper as well. So much so, in fact, that the tension of the following morning hit her like a slap. She thought she’d risen early; Grace was still sleeping soundly when she slipped from the room to find breakfast. But when she reached the inn’s private dining room, her father was already there, as was the dowager. There was no sneaking away; they had both seen her instantly, and besides, she was famished.

She supposed she could put up with her father’s lectures (they had been coming with increasing frequency) and the dowager’s venom (this had always been frequent) if it meant she could partake of whatever it was creating that heavenly, eggy aroma coming from the sideboard.

Eggs, probably.

She smiled. At least she could still amuse herself.

That had to count for something.

“Good morning, Amelia,” her father said as she sat down with her plate.

She dipped her chin in polite greeting. “Father.” She then glanced over at the dowager. “Your grace.”

The dowager pursed her lips and made a noise, but other than that did not acknowledge her.

“Did you sleep well?” her father inquired.

“Very well, thank you,” she replied, though it was not quite true. She and Grace had shared a bed, and Grace moved around a lot.

“We depart in half an hour,” the dowager said crisply.

Amelia had managed to fork one bite of eggs into her mouth, and took advantage of the time it took to chew to glance over at the doorway, which remained empty. “I don’t think the others will be ready. Grace is still—”

“She is of no concern.”

“You can’t go anywhere without the two dukes,” Lord Crowland pointed out.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” the dowager demanded.

Lord Crowland shrugged. “How else am I meant to refer to them?”

Amelia knew she ought to have been outraged. It was a most cavalier statement, all things considered.

But her father was so offhand, and the dowager so offended—she decided it made far more sense to be amused.

“Sometimes I do not know why I work so hard to advance your entry into my family,” the dowager said to Amelia, giving her a scathing glare.

Amelia swallowed, wishing she had a retort, because for once she rather thought she’d have been brave enough to say it. But nothing came to mind, at least nothing as fabulously cutting and witty as she would have liked, and so she clamped her mouth shut and stared at a spot on the wall over the dowager’s shoulder.

“There is no call for such talk, Augusta,” Lord Crowland said. And then, as she glared at him for his use of her name—he was one of the few who did, and it always infuriated her—he added, “A less equable man than I might take insult.”

Fortunately, the chilly moment was broken by Thomas’s arrival. “Good morning,” he said smoothly, taking his seat at the table. He seemed not at all perturbed that no one returned his greeting. Amelia supposed that her father was too busy attempting to put the dowager in her place, and the dowager—well, she rarely returned anyone’s greeting, so this was hardly out of character.

As for herself, she would have liked to have said something. Really, it was all very lovely now, not feeling so cowed in Thomas’s presence. But when he sat—

directly across from her—she’d looked up, and he’d looked up, and—

It wasn’t that she was intimidated, exactly. It was just that she seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

His eyes were that blue.

Except for the stripe, of course. She loved that stripe.

She loved that he thought it was silly.

“Lady Amelia,” he murmured.

She nodded her greeting, managing, “Duke,” since your grace contained far too many syllables.

“I am leaving,” the dowager abruptly announced, her chair scraping angrily across the floor as she rose to